The Laughing Cavalier Baroness Orczy (bill gates books recommendations txt) 📖

once. I would try one of those effects of light of which Rembrandt thinks that he hath the monopoly, but which I would show him how to treat without so much artificiality.”

He continued talking of technicalities, rambling on in his usual fretful, impatient way, while Diogenes stretched out his cramped limbs, and rubbed his tired eyes.

“Can I undress now?”

“Yes. The light has quite gone,” said the artist with a sigh.

Diogenes stood for a long time in contemplation of the masterpiece, even as the shadows of evening crept slowly into every corner of the studio and cast their gloom over the gorgeous canvas in its magnificent scheme of colour.

“Am I really as good looking as that?” he asked with one of his most winning laughs.

“Good looking? I don’t know,” replied Hals, “you are the best sitter I have ever had. Today has been one of perfect, unalloyed enjoyment to me.”

All his vulgar, mean little ways had vanished, his obsequiousness, that shifty look of indecision in the eyes which proclaimed a growing vice. His entire face flowed with the enthusiasm of a creator who has had to strain every nerve to accomplish his work, but having accomplished it, is entirely satisfied with it. He could not tear himself away from the picture, but stood looking at it long after the gloom had obliterated all but its most striking lights.

Then only did he realise that he was both hungry and weary.

“Will you come with me to the Lame Cow,” he said to his friend, “we can eat and drink there and hear all the latest news. I want to see Cornelius Beresteyn if I can; he must be deeply stricken with grief and will have need of the sympathy of all his well-wishers. What say you? Shall we get supper at the Lame Cow?”

To which proposition Diogenes readily agreed. It pleased his spirit of adventure to risk a chance encounter in the popular tavern with Nicolaes Beresteyn or the Lord of Stoutenburg, both of whom must think him at this moment several leagues away in the direction of Rotterdam. Neither of these gentlemen would venture to question him in a public place; moreover it had been agreed from the first that he was to be given an absolutely free hand with regard to his plans for conducting the jongejuffrouw to her ultimate destination.

Altogether the afternoon and evening promised to be more amusing than Diogenes had anticipated.

XXI A Grief-Stricken Father

Frans Hals had not been guilty of exaggeration when he said that the whole city was in a turmoil about the abduction of Gilda Beresteyn by that impudent gang of ocean-robbers who called themselves the sea-wolves.

On this subject there were no two opinions. The sea-wolves had done this deed as they had done others of a like nature before. The abduction of children of rich parents was one of their most frequent crimes: and many a wealthy burgher had had to pay half his fortune away in ransom for his child. The fact that a covered sledge escorted by three riders who were swathed in heavy mantles had been seen to go out of the city by the northern gate at seven o’clock last evening, was held to be sufficient proof that the unfortunate jongejuffrouw was being conveyed straightway to the coast where the pirates had their own lairs and defied every effort which had hitherto been made for their capture.

On this the 2nd day of January, 1624⁠—rather less than twenty-four hours after the abduction of Gilda Beresteyn, the tapperij of the Lame Cow presented an appearance which was almost as animated as that which had graced it on New Year’s night. Everyone who took an interest in the terrible event went to the Lame Cow in the hope of finding another better informed than himself.

Men and women sat round the tables or leaned against the bars discussing the situation: everyone, of course, had a theory to put forward, or a suggestion to offer.

“ ’Tis time the old law for the raising of a corps of Waardgelders by the city were put into force once more,” said Mynheer van der Meer the burgomaster, whose words carried weight. “What can a city do for the preservation of law and order if it has not the power to levy its own military guard?”

“My opinion is,” said Mynheer van Zeller, who was treasurer of the Oudemannenhuis and a personage of vast importance, “that we in this city ought to close our gates against all this foreign rabble who infest us with their noise and their loose ways. Had there not been such a crowd of them here for the New Year you may depend on it that Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn would not have had to suffer this dastardly abomination.”

Others on the other hand thought that the foreign mercenaries now within the city could be utilised for the purpose of an expedition against the sea-wolves.

“They are very daring and capable fighters,” suggested Mynheer van Beerenbrock⁠—a meek, timid but vastly corpulent gentleman of great consideration on the town council, “and more able to grapple with desperate brigands than were a levy of raw recruits from among our young townsfolk.”

“Set a rogue to fight a rogue, say I,” assented another pompous burgher.

Cornelius Beresteyn sat at a table with his son and surrounded by his most influential friends. Those who knew him well declared that he had aged ten years in the past few hours. His devotion to his daughter was well known and it was pitiable to see the furrows in his cheeks wet with continuously falling tears. He sat huddled up within himself, his elbows resting on the table, his head often buried in his hands when emotion mastered him, and he felt unable to restrain his tears. He looked like a man absolutely dazed with the immensity of his grief, as if someone had dealt him a violent blow on the head which had half-addled his brain.

Throughout the day